


Retired Capes and Cowls

by mia6363



Series: Out of Retirement [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Awkward Dates, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Reuniting, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 05:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14181711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia6363/pseuds/mia6363
Summary: His mom spoke about her past freely. His dad didn’t speak about it at all. And as Stiles grew older, read more… he understood why.They hadn’t been comic book heroes. They’d been a part of a phenomenon in the eighties and early nineties where people would slap on a costume and run around in the street.You know, like lunatics.





	Retired Capes and Cowls

It started with a freak onslaught of freezing rain in Northern California. 

Derek Hale cursed as he ran down an uneven sidewalk, the stinging rain pelting against his skin like needles as he clumsily held up his jacket in the world’s most pathetic attempt at a makeshift umbrella. The rain weighed heavily on his jeans and he could barely see, desperately ducking out of the way of people because he didn’t just want to go into _any_ store for shelter, he had a very specific destination— 

As he’d turned to narrowly avoid a mother and her stroller, he slammed into a tall, lithe young man. Derek stumbled, his momentum too powerful to stop, but at least he could still throw out his hands to break his fall and not just _faceplant_ into the stranger like an _idiot_. His palms throbbed as they hit the pavement and the young man beneath him sucked in a quick breath. 

“Fuck. _Fuck_ , dude. _Ow_.” 

Derek sprang up as fast he could manage, which was not very fast at all because his knees hurt and he was pretty sure his hands were bleeding. 

“I’m sorry.” He winced at his voice. Had he always sounded so… coarse? Mean? He could practically hear his uncle Peter roll his eyes with a drawled, _for as long as I can remember_. “I should have looked where I was going. I’m sorry.” 

He grabbed the man’s hands without thinking and helped him up, brushing off his shirt. Then he remembered that his hands were bleeding and that he was probably making everything worse. 

“Hey, man.” The young man shook himself off. “It’s all good. No worries.” 

Derek reminded himself that he was supposed to be soaked to the bone and stressed, not hearing romantic strings swell as he _finally_ meets the man’s gaze. He knows that the flush on the man’s cheeks is because of the cold, that the tremor in his shoulders isn’t from nerves but from the rain. But still, Derek felt like Gene Kelly as he cleared his throat. 

“Look, I was just going into the Gold Leaf Tea Room. If you’re not doing anything, I’d love to treat you.” 

Derek _definitely_ didn’t know his name yet because that would be _creepy_ and _impossible_. He watched the man’s eyebrows quirk up in surprise, his mouth going slack in an endearing way. 

“I was,” the young man swallowed and his cheeks flushed a deeper pink. “I was actually going to go in there anyway.” 

The man _smiled_ and Derek hadn’t known he’d been such a romantic until that very moment when he thought _this was worth it_ , rain pouring down his face and people angrily moving around them… it was worth it. His hands still throbbed in time with his heartbeat and he was sure his jeans were torn where he fell.

Time slowed to a crawl, the rain no longer stinging darts of water, but flowing ribbons of twinkling teal and opal. No one bumped into them, and Derek’s heart thudded in his throat. 

“I’m Derek.” 

He held out his hand. The man grabbed it right away, firm and confident. 

“Stiles. Nice to meet you,” and he _pulled_ Derek by the hand toward the tea room. “Now _come on_ , let’s get out of the rain!” 

He let Derek’s hand fall free after a few seconds, but still, Derek couldn’t fight down the smile that grew along his lips.

::::

On the _record_ , it did start with the freakish rainfall in Northern California, but that’s not _really_ when it started. 

By the time Stiles Stilinski had been born, the Renaissance of superheroes had just come to a close. His mother and father had retired the moment she found out she was pregnant, and it turned out that was the right move on their part as protests against “masked vigilantes” had started gaining more traction, enough for the government to officially start laws that would arrest all those who were running around in cowls and capes. 

Stiles was a little good luck charm, his mother used to giggle with him as she told him stories about _her younger years_. If he did well in school she’d show him her mask, the velveteen deep purple cape, and sometimes when it was just him and her on the playground, she’d show off her acrobatic skills. She was _Athena_ and his father was _Atlas_. She’d been draped in velvet and she fought crime with a bow. His father took a more traditional approach with a fitted outfit made of kevlar, though it was colored in navy and gold, an “A” emblazoned on his back. 

His mother would laugh and recall the criminals they’d caught, tying them up in ropes for the police to capture. And then the _villain_ who would chase after them. Her face would light up, because she told Stiles that criminals were everyday people committing crime, but _villains_ dressed up, had color schemes, and only went after heroes. 

_“One time,”_ his mother had been breathless with laughter and Stiles would giggle with her even if he didn’t get the joke, _“one of our regular villains, The Incredible Oz, got tangled in your father’s cape, almost passed out before we could cut it off him.”_ She sighed, her eyes glittering with nostalgic joy. _“He was still purple in the face when he took a deep breath and said, ‘You live another day, courtesy of the benevolent Oz!”_

She had lowered her voice, her lips twisting in a weird, crooked grin, and when she broke off into giggles, Stiles went with her. 

Every story had a happy ending. 

Then she died. 

His dad didn’t tell Stiles stories. He told Stiles that all the stories his mother told could _never_ be shared with anyone.

When his mother talked about _Atlas_ , her eyes would light up as she described a man who wasn’t afraid of anything, who helped people get back on their feet with a wink and a, _“Hopefully that takes a little bit of the weight off your shoulders.”_ To Stiles… he was just dad. 

Dad who struggled to find time for PTA meetings, dad who never stayed awake for an entire movie, and dad who sometimes would avert his eyes from his reflection in the mirror. His mom spoke about her past freely. His dad didn’t speak about it at all. And as Stiles grew older, read more… he understood why. 

They hadn’t been comic book heroes. They’d been a part of a phenomenon in the eighties and early nineties where people would slap on a costume and run around in the street. 

_You know, like lunatics._

The stories his mother had told so sweetly, that Stiles had treasured so dearly, slowly soured until just thinking about them made him squeamish with a mixture of shame-fascination-grief. 

Stiles knew his parents weren’t _crazy_ -crazy, they’d just been wild when they were younger. Still, it kept him on his toes. Stiles was… what teachers called _observant_ and his peers called _nosy_. 

So yeah, Stiles totally noticed the hot guy who appeared in Beacon Hills. He’s not blind. Stiles knew his place, he saw, processed, and moved on. 

Then he saw him again at the library. Stiles let his eyes linger, enough to remember that _yes_ , he had seen him before. New Hot Guy suddenly frequented the library, the tea shop, and even the park by Finstock’s house that Stiles would sometimes walk through on his way home. Stiles took note but didn’t think anything of it, just that him and this guy must have had similar schedules. 

Then it was raining NHG knocked Stiles out, not with his looks but physically ran into him. After helping him back onto his feet and putting a name to a handsome face, Derek and Stiles sat at a booth in the Gold Tea Leaf. Stiles’s ass still throbbed and he grimaced when he thought about the inevitable bruising. He ran his fingers through his hair and winced when a spray of water shot out. Derek squeezed his eyes shut as the mist hit him in the face. 

“Aw, fuck!” Stiles leaned away from him. “Shit, I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” Derek wiped his face with his hand, like he was walking out of an Old Spice commercial. “I’m sorry for knocking you over.” 

Stiles waved away the apology and hunched over his cup of tea. He breathed in the scents of sharp herbs and—

“And then what happened?” Finstock grinned, crooked and wild from behind the ridiculous magnifiers strapped to his face. “Come on, you had a perfect meet-cute and you’re fucking telling me about the _tea_. No one gives a shit about the tea you drank.” 

Stiles flipped him off before he went back to cleaning up digital files, erasing smudges and correcting small errors. The basement of the Beacon Hills library would be creepy and musty, but somehow Finstock made it more inhabitable. 

That, and Stiles was pretty sure the librarians had soundproofed the door so that Finstock could exist at his… unique volume and vocabulary. Going through old tomes and converting them to digital files wasn’t exactly balls-to-the-wall riveting, but it was decent money and not that hard. 

“I mean, nothing really? You don’t want a play-by-play of boring conversation, dude.” 

Finstock rolled his cartoonishly magnified eyes as he bent over an old deed. 

“What if I do? It’s called _living vicariously_ , Stiles.” He rolled his eyes. “You know what my big human interaction was this week? The girl at the CVS had to ask for my ID when I got cough syrup. She was new, so I think she was askin’ everyone, but still.” 

Stiles probably would have quit long ago if it wasn’t for Finstock. He was insane, loud, and vulgar. Stiles was pretty sure that Finstock was born centuries too late, that he would have been a perfect bard, drinking wine and spinning saucey tales.

Instead, he was in the basement of the library day after day, pouring over old relics. Stiles shook his head with a wry smile. 

“We just talked about, uh, the weather. And like, he just moved here. He’s working on that farm, right on the edge of town. And his uncle lives nearby.” Stiles flushed, his shoulders rising. “Look, he was just nervous because he’s new.” 

Finstock straightened and took of his magnifiers, red marks and indentations accentuating the dark circles under his eyes. 

“Oh my God. He gave you his number?” Stiles sank down in his chair, his ears burning red. “ _Stiles_. He _gave you his number_.”

“He’s lonely!” Stiles saved his latest document and spun in his squeaky office hair to glare at Finstock. “He didn’t even know about the _diner_ , Finstock. He just… he was probably just psyched made a friend. Even if it meant giving said-friend bruises on his ass.”

Finstock narrowed his eyes. 

“Where did he move from?”

“New York.”

Finstock snorted. 

“East Coast folks aren’t that nice. Part of their charm. He’s probably into you.” 

Working with Finstock was never boring, he was totally insane. 

::::

Derek and Stiles went out six times. To the diner, the library, at the farm, running into each other at the grocery store, the coffee shop at the corner of Main Street, and technically the sixth time was an hour long phone call when Derek was done with work where Stiles fell asleep mid-explanation of what made mudskippers “dope as hell.” 

Derek felt like he was drowning, scrambling to try and keep afloat, but at the same time enjoying the descent. 

“Back in my day, if I liked someone I’d just find out everything about them.” Peter rolled his eyes while he did a stretch that made his limbs look like rubber. His assistant Kira followed his pose and neither of them broke a sweat. “Honestly, if you ever want some actual advice—” 

“ _No_.” Derek’s stomach twisted as his uncle and Kira slipped into the downward facing dog before ending their cool-down routine. “No. Because the last time you tried to orchestrate meet-cutes they _all failed_.” 

Every attempt to create a moment with Stiles hadn’t worked, even when Peter went beyond elaborate and tripped a waiter, timing it so that their fall would trigger a series of disasters… that still didn’t have Stiles and Derek’s paths intercept. Peter’s confidence made it easy to forget that… well, Peter was a little crazy. 

Kira tossed Peter a water bottle and took one for herself.

“I mean, you guys have been talking a lot.” She pressed the bottle to her forehead, closing her eyes against the cool sensation. “I don’t think he’d be talking to you if he didn’t like you.” 

“Yeah, but—”

“Kira,” Peter sat on one of the fancy bar stools in his kitchen, swinging his legs out as he smirked at his nephew. “Derek loves to sulk. Just let him marinate for a bit.” 

He followed his uncle throughout the property, through the rooms with high ceilings to the stone patio with elegant fencing and vines that crept along the railing and the side of his house. To the world Peter Hale had retired early with a trust fund and enough money he’d earned personally to last him several lifetimes. 

To Derek… Peter was the uncle that his mother had trouble talking about without her lips going tight. Peter hadn’t chosen to retire, but it was a compromise. This way he was out of the public eye, and was no longer involved in Hale Consulting. His mother described it as a win-win scenario for all parties. 

Derek couldn’t help but notice how his uncle was small for the large house he stayed in. He never remained in a room alone for long, if Kira moved to get something, he moved with her. His posture and demeanor never betrayed any anxiety or depression, but Derek recognized it. It was the same reason why Peter’s hobbies were varied and expanded every few weeks. If Peter never stopped moving, he’d have no reason to sink. 

“You’re seeing him tonight, aren’t you?” Peter slid his arm around Derek’s shoulders. He didn’t tense the way his mother would have. “You mentioned a bar.”

“Yeah.” Derek hunched forward a bit. “In a few hours.” 

“Are you going to wear that?” 

“Well,” Derek looked down at his sweater and dark jeans. “Yeah.” 

Peter opened his mouth but Kira gently interrupted.

“I think it looks nice.” She glanced at Peter. “People look nice when they’re comfortable.” 

Walking through the halls of Peter’s house was like a museum of hobbies and games. Fencing equipment, bows, fabric, knitting needles, boxing gloves, running shoes, board games of all kinds lined the walls. The first floor was polished to reflect a distracted but _normal_ mind. The second floor, was… darker. Less light made it out there due to the closed windows, but that was where all the colors were greens, golds, and black. The second floor was where Peter’s eyes would sometimes go distant with a mixture of nostalgia and mourning. 

Sunlight poured in the green and gold stained glass windows. Peter wheedled, “Not even some eyeliner,” as Kira pulled on her jacket. Descending the stairs, it was just Derek and Kira walking to their cars. 

“Um,” Kira wrung her hands, her keys jangling on her fingers, “if this is inappropriate, just stop me.” Derek paused, his door open. “Peter hasn’t… well, this is just the happiest I’ve seen him in a while.” 

_Your uncle has a fragile mind, Derek._ His mother had warned him and his sisters when they were old enough to understand that most families saw their uncles more than just once a year. _He was a part of some… social phenomenon years ago, before some of you were born. It was an undignified time. One that… I don’t believe he’s recovered from._

“It’s not,” Derek swallowed past the lump in his throat. “It’s not inappropriate.” He knew his mother wouldn’t agree. He glanced back towards the house, how loomed in its massive size. “I don’t know much about him. My mom never wanted us to get close to him when we were little, and I know that she probably asked to keep his past to himself.” 

Kira crossed her arms and Derek wasn’t sure if she faked the shiver or not.

“Well, I’m glad you’re visiting. You know, when you can. I think it’s… nice.” 

She got into her car without a wave or another glance at him and tore down Peter’s long driveway. Derek swallowed and the tightness in his chest didn’t fade even when he walked into the The Village Idiot. 

The interior was the polished “rustic” look with tables that were stained deep and so smooth they might as well have been laminated. The lights were just single bulbs that swayed from the ceiling and the beers were local, all with charming names where half were some kind of pun. 

Stiles sat at the bar, fiddling with his phone, and he glanced up the moment Derek stepped in. He smiled and Derek thought he saw his cheeks flush but he couldn’t be sure in the dim lighting. 

“Hey, man.” Stiles’s fingers were long and stark against a glass of dark beer. Derek swallowed as he sat down next to him. “I realized I never finished my mudskipper debate with you.” 

“I’m not sure I’d call it a debate. More of an… enthusiastic discussion.” 

The bartender slid Derek a glass of the same beer Stiles had, with a raised brow that he had a feeling he was supposed to interpret, but he didn’t know her. He awkwardly nodded at her before returning his attention back to Stiles and his phone which showed—

Derek choked on his beer as an amphibian creature stared back at him on the screen. Stiles howled with laughter and even as Derek caught his breath, he couldn’t help but bask in the warmth of mirth. Stiles wiped his eyes, his hand slapping hard on Derek’s shoulder before _squeezing_ , like he was keeping Derek there even though Derek didn’t need an excuse to stay. 

“Holy shit,” Stiles wheezed, “the look in your fucking face. Oh my God.” Stiles leaned against him, shoulder-to-shoulder and it felt natural for Derek to simply… put his hand on Stiles’s back, feeling his vertebrae through his thin t-shirt. “Come on, I’m about to blow your mind.” 

_You already have_ , Derek didn’t say. Because that would be weird, even as he smiled and leaned in closer to get a better look at Stiles’s phone. 

::::

If there was one person that Stiles could consistently make laugh, it was himself. 

He had only had one beer but he felt like he was actually _drunk_ as he left the bar, his arm slung around Derek’s shoulder because _somehow_ they’d ended up like that, laughing as they moved from mudskippers to the biological dangers of cannibalism, and Derek was now whining about vegetables that were hard to harvest. 

“Celeriac. Fucking _celeriac_.” Across from The Village Idiot was a tiny park, one that were too groomed and had an obnoxious fountain. It was a good place to walk off the buzz and listen to Derek read the shit out of a vegetable that Stiles had never heard of. “No, Stiles, I’m serious, it’s the worst. It just… it just sticks in the ground. Last time we had to harvest it one of its leaves broke off and I went flying three rows back.” 

Stiles couldn’t keep it together, because Derek’s lips were twitching around laughter and that combined with his stupid rugged face was _comedic gold_. Stiles leaned against the railing by the fountain, laughing with his head tilted back and wiping his eyes when he could finally breathe again. 

“I feel like I’m getting this look into the _underground_ of farming.” 

Derek rolled his eyes. 

“No, before you ask, there is no farming fight club.” Stiles hiccuped and had to tap out to catch his breath, his fingers catching on Derek’s jacket. He catalogued every touch, the length, and the elation that came when Derek would return it. Short brushese of fingers down Stiles’s back, a squeeze of the shoulder, and a simple touch on the arm. It was the slowest, weirdest game of contact tag and Stiles couldn’t get enough. Derek cleared his throat, his fingers lifting off of Stiles’s forearm. “How’s work been, archive anything interesting?” 

Stiles appreciated the reprieve and shrugged. 

“Nah. It’s a lot of journals but nothing saucy. A lot of the times it’s land deeds and property maps.” Stiles stretched. “Really, the best part is my boss. He’s a weirdo, but the best kind of weirdo. Loud, curses a lot. Oh man, so last week during our lunch break we just went to the benches outside the old folks home across the street and these _geese_ just—”

If there was one thing Stiles got from his mother, it was the appreciation of a good story. He made big gestures and weird noises, because it was how his mom had done it. He got lost in retelling the epic showdown between man and bird all over some stale french fries when he realized that Derek was staring. 

Stiles paused, and he wondered if the spell was finally broken, if his weird string of luck had finally ended. Because hot guys like Derek didn’t fawn over guys like Stiles. _He’s new in town, he’s just lonely_. Stiles wondered if this was the moment where Derek gathered his courage and decided that he could make friends with other people who weren’t as weird, rambling, and… erratic as Stiles. 

He swallowed and Derek snapped out of whatever existential crisis he was going through. 

_Maybe this can be a real growing moment for both of us_ , Stiles reasoned. Derek will get the confidence to make better friends, and Stiles will learn to keep the reins tight on his expectations. Finstock practiced the belief of extreme under-anticipation. _That way if the absolute worst thing happens you have the satisfaction of being right, and if you’re wrong, you’re pleasantly surprised._

Finstock wasn’t as crazy as he let on, and Stiles would at least have a funny story to tell on Monday—

“Can I kiss you?” 

Of all the words Derek could have said, Stiles didn’t expect those, not in that order, and certainly not with a red face. Stiles froze, his heartbeat thudding in his throat as blood rushed to his face. He knew he was getting pink and splotchy. 

Stiles must have took too long to answer because his brain was in the middle of a meltdown, because Derek sucked in a quick breathe, his shoulders getting tense as he took a half-step backwards. 

“I mean, if you want. That’s why… I asked. I just thought,” Derek’s throat bobbed and Stiles’s dumb brain finally _rebooted_ in time for him to realize _holy shit he’s fucking nervous. Because of me_. “I just thought that um, you’re really… nice and uh, cute and that maybe these were dates—”

“You can kiss me.” Stiles blurted out, his eyes wide and his heart humming in his chest. Derek choked on his stuttering monologue and Stiles swallowed. “I’m so for that. Kissing you. If you’re still game—” 

And Derek kissed him. A short press of lips that was more nerves than actual affection, but it was still _a kiss_. That totally counted. Stiles chased after his lips, pulling him back for something longer, less nervous and more _longing_. Stiles was able to concentrate on the second kiss, on the way Derek’s breath caught, the feeling of his stubble under Stiles’s trembling fingers, and the light taste of beer. 

When he pulled back Stiles had to remind himself that _no_ , fireworks weren’t going off, _no_ , a photographer from City Hall did not appear to provide them photo evidence and a bouquet of flowers, and _no_ , a string quartet did not play _Your Song_ by Elton John. 

The fountain hissed behind him and the lights in the parking lot flickered on as the sun sank lower beneath the horizon. 

“Whoa,” Stiles whispered right before Derek grinned. 

:::: 

Peter hadn’t always been trapped in a big house, practically a museum exhibit of existential dread. There had been a time when he’d been young and eager to smile. 

Back when Peter had found a way to escape the monotony that his sister worshipped at Hale Consulting. At that moment, all those years ago, Peter thought _surely this is the lowest I’ve been in life_. Because he wasn’t _moving_ , his sister’s idea of success was becoming sedentary and Peter counted down the seconds of every minute of every hour, staring out of his corner office window hoping, _praying_ , that something would come along to pull him out of the quicksand that was Hale Consulting.

And… low and behold, something did. 

It had been 1986, perms were in style and Peter was in a suit in his corner office, just another day for the rest of his life. He clicked his pen, he jiggled his foot, he gnashed his teeth, his eyes swooping through amber light as the slices of sunset cascaded through his office—

Down below on the street, two costumed people ran after three figures. Peter’s jaw went slack, his legs moving to stand up, to follow them along his wall of windows, his eyes tracking the costumed folks as they got closer, closer and—

“Yes!” Peter jumped up when they _caught them_ and he hit his hands against his window, not caring about smudges. “Get them!” 

For the first time in years, Peter felt like the air in his lungs wasn’t merely a miserable tool to keep him conscious. It tasted sweet, and his office dripped in colors of the sun reflecting off the glass as he watched the duo tie up their targets just like the cheesy superheroes in comic books. 

Watching them was the best Peter had felt in years, returning color to the world around him until the taste of burnt coffee on his tongue was suddenly a symphony, every _tick_ from the clock on his wall was a choir, and his suit that itched wasn’t constricting, but freeing as a—

“What are you doing?” 

Peter jumped, turning around to see his sister in his door with her arms crossed, her lips pressed into a razor-thin white line.

“Just looking at the—” 

She was by his side in an instant, her eyes following Peter’s gaze and she scoffed. 

“Oh right. The _heroes_.” Peter gawked, at how she said it so casually, like she was bored. Talia rolled her eyes. “I don’t blame you for not knowing, it’s buried in the back of the papers. Basically just local New York gossip. _Apparently_ ,” and Talia wasn’t that old, but she certainly aged when she used _that tone_ , “some young, dissatisfied men and women are putting on costumes and going out to fight crime. And, ironically, run from the police since vigilante justice is illegal.” 

Now that he knew to watch, he started leaving work early, hoping to catch a glimpse of a cape, a mask, _something_ , and that was how he got mugged in the middle of the night in the seedier outskirts of New York City.

“Hey man,” the feeling of a knife against his lower back shouldn’t have been as much of a surprise as it was, considering the neighborhoods Peter would stalk hoping for an encounter with some of the caped crusaders he’d seen from his office. “Take it real slow and give us your wallet.” 

Peter held his hands up and did as he was told, heart hammering in his chest. He had purposely left his ID and credit cards at the office. Three hundred dollars was nothing, not if it meant satisfied muggers and a chance at meeting a hero—

“Get down!” 

A feminine voice that was like ice and wet stone had Peter ducking down to his knees. He twisted in time to see the two muggers town get torn back, the one with the knife was punched while the other had a pair of legs wrap around his waist as he was dragged backwards. The rush of adrenalin coupled with the indescribable _satisfaction_ was better than any cocktail, merger, or holiday bonus. 

The sound of flesh on flesh violence shouldn’t have made Peter’s lips pull into an awed smile, it shouldn’t have made him feel feather-light as he watched two heroes come to his rescue. 

_Worth it, this was so worth it_ , Peter sang inwardly. 

They were the first two heroes he’d seen from his office, he could tell by their colors. The woman was lithe, _fast_ , and was acrobatic and moved like liquid mercury. The man had broad shoulders and even under his gloves, Peter could tell that the man’s hands were impressive. The woman tied the muggers together with a gold rope. 

It was the man who approached Peter, and that was how he met The Mighty Atlas and Athena. 

They dressed in deep navy blue with thin, elegant accepts of gold. It was around one in the morning, Peter was pretty sure he was sitting in dried piss and dirt, but the world had never been more beautiful, not when Atlas extended his hand. Peter took it and marveled at his _grip_ as he was pulled to his feet. 

“There you go.” His voice was a casual, weary timbre. He brushed the side of Peter’s shoulder with his hand before squeezing it twice. “Better now that the world is back under your feet?”

Athena came up behind Atlas, a mask covering the upper part of her face, but her lips were pulled back into a luminous grin. 

“Are you okay?”

 

Peter was better than okay. He was _marvelous_. He wanted to sing, he wanted to dance, but more than anything he wanted to go to The Garment District because he knew what he needed to do. 

_“Peter, are you okay?”_

Standing on that grimey street in during the witching hours, Peter felt like he was draped in satin as clarity washed over him. Every hero needed a villain. 

_“Peter.”_ Athena’s brows were furrowed but that was weird because she never knew Peter’s name. Peter blinked, and he was not on the streets of New York because he lived in California now and that was over thirty years ago. _“Peter, are you okay?”_

Kira Yukimura stood over him, her fencing mask pushed up. Her hair was stuck to the side her face, her cheeks flushed. Behind her, the sky was painted deep indigo with streaks of purple. They were at one of the local parks, in a clearing tucked away next to a thicker part of the forest. Peter sat up, resisting the urge to shiver. 

“I’m fine.” 

He didn’t ask how long he’d been out of it, how long he’d been lost in his own memories. He was with Kira, and she was the best confidant. _Only because she’s on your sister’s payroll_ , he thought bitterly, though it was hard to see Kira as an apathetic employee. 

She dropped to her knees, laying her foil delicately on the ground before she got a closer look. 

“Here,” she gently pushed her water bottle into his hand. “Keep hydrated.” 

On paper, Kira Yukimura was Peter Hale’s executive assistant, and had been for the past four years. But really, she acted more as a caretaker, confidant, and companion. Peter Hale wasn’t employed, he hardly had to keep on top of meetings, lunches, and conference calls. But he did _need_ someone, and Talia was able to provide him someone. All Peter asked was that they had a background in fencing. 

He hadn’t been expecting much, but Kira Yukimura had a talent for quietly, yet consistently, exceeding all expectations. He got up, pushing his hands on his knees until he was standing. Kira followed his lead and he put his foil away, taking off his protective mask as he picked up the first bamboo staff. He tossed it to Kira before picking up the second. 

She took off her mask and blew some strands of hair out of her eyes. 

They were both still learning bo staff fighting, and bamboo was flexible enough to not injure themselves too badly, but firm enough to leave large welts and bruises. Peter’s hobbies were a nice distraction, but nothing helped him clear his mind of any nostalgic musings more than physical exertion. 

He darted forward, thrusting the bamboo pole at Kira’s stomach, only for her to knock it out of the way. They were both tired from hours of fencing, but it was nice to unwind with some mindless, clumsy fun. 

She swatted his thigh, he skimmed her abdomen, and when she stumbled back after Peter had knocked her staff down _hard_ , he charged forward. Her eyes widened and she ran, laughter bubbling out of her in peals. He gave chase and swept her legs out with his staff, stumbling to catch her, but both of their momentums took them tumbling to the grass. 

Peter slapped her arm before he rolled onto his back, out of breath, but not enough to stop himself from shouting in victory.

“You live another day, courtesy of the benevolent Oz!” 

It fell out, like water through his fingers. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the confused look on Kira’s face, or the realization that _oh, this was just a Peter thing_. When he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was back in New York City, that it was 1986, and that he still had _purpose_ in life. 

Kira hissed his name. He cracked an eye open, depressingly trapped in present day. He sat up, rubbing sweat and grime from his eyes and saw that a man was walking toward them. Kira was already on her feet, stepping in front of him with a timid smile. 

“Sorry,” Kira had this way of smiling into problem in a way that Peter had the patience for. He was glad that Kira had the charm to take eyes off of him and direct them at herself. “Were we disturbing you?” 

“Nah. Well,” the man ran his fingers through his wild black hair, grimacing as he ran his tongue over his large teeth. “ _I_ didn’t have a problem with it, I live just on the other side of those woods. But my neighbors, they uh,” his cheeks were speckled with pink and red splotches as he paused, looking between them. “They got it into their heads that there were people fucking somewhere out in the woods, so they sent me out to investigate.” 

Kira went scarlet up to her ears. 

“Well, we weren’t doing _that_.” Kira’s shoulders were tight, her arms crossed across her chest. Peter slowly picked himself up, grabbing his bo staff as he listened to Kira clear her throat. “Sorry for the noise.” 

“Oh, really, don’t worry about it.” The man waved his hand. “Just between you and me, my neighbors have a habit of exaggerating. So no worries.” He he held out her bo staff like a peace offering. “It was wild. Watching you two fight.” 

Peter didn’t know what was more surprising, that the man seemed just as anxious as Kira, or that she actually gave him her number. 

::::

Stiles was right in the middle of a great bagel when Finstock arrived with his signature pink thermos and worn, hole-filled sweater. Typically, Stiles would nod in hello, maybe offer half of his breakfast if Finstock was looking agitated, but that morning his boss was… Stiles would dare say _chipper_. 

The last time Finstock was this happy it was because he got to play with bulldog for fifteen minutes just outside of the library. He didn’t expect Finstock to breathe deeply and puff out his chest.

“You live another day, courtesy of the benevolent Oz!” Stiles nearly fell out of his chair, his ears ringing as he stared, mouth agape and full of half-chewed bagel as Finstock, _crazy_ but as far as Stiles knew, _not an actual lunatic_ Finstock sat down with a whistle. “Good morning, Stiles.” 

Stiles’s throat bobbed and he choked on his food, hacking and coughing until his eyes stung with tears. Finstock’s hand rubbed his back and eventually Stiles was able to breathe again.

“Where did you hear that?” 

Finstock’s brow furrowed. 

“This weekend. I met some weirdos in the park. They were fencing. The guy said that at the end of a match.” 

_What was his name? What did he look like? Are you okay? Did he attack you?_ A million questions made Stiles’s lung seize and his fingers get tingly and cold. He couldn’t think of a clever way to get the information out of Finstock, so he remained quiet, each second on the clock a dreadful eternity. 

He hadn’t heard those words in years. 

_Ever since mom died._

There were days when Stiles would get quiet, rare days, but Finstock always knew to leave him alone. Thankfully he followed tradition and Stiles worked through the day in a haze until a chirp from his phone reminded him that he was going to have dinner with Derek. And Stiles couldn’t _cancel_ , not at the last minute, and so he drove on over to the farm. 

MacGuillis Farm was an oasis, lush, green, and was run by some of the nicest nuns Stiles had ever had the pleasure of meeting. He was able to keep his smile steady for them as they said Derek was in his room, Sister Margaret _winking_ as she told Stiles that dinner would be ready in a couple of hours. 

The halls of the three big houses on the farm were all adorned in murals that would get painted over in white at the start of the next spring, to make room for fresh ideas and art. It was a beautiful sight that Stiles usually took time to admire when he’d visit, but he couldn’t focus as he knocked on Derek’s door. 

As Derek opened the door to his room the smile fell from his face. 

“What happened?” 

Of course Derek could see right through Stiles’s thin smile and _of course_ he’d immediately pull Stiles in, gently closing the door as Stiles gently sat in Derek’s chair, hugging his backpack to his chest. 

Derek was on his knees in a second. Because Derek was _perfect_ , and he didn’t look angry or annoyed, just afraid. Stiles could lie, not that he was in a stable enough place mentally to sell it. He’d lied about his dad’s youth all the time, he never trusted _anyone_ with how his parents met. He had even stopped asking his father about it… because he didn’t have to ask to know where his father’s eyes went when he went quiet 

He swallowed, his throat painfully tight. 

“My parents,” Stiles’s breath shook in his lungs and he forced himself to be honest, to the one person where it counted. Derek was nice, and he… he deserved to know what he was getting into. “My parents were superheroes. You know, the crazy people who ran around in the eighties and nineties?” Derek nodded and Stiles hugged his bag closer to his stomach. “Well, they were all about it. It’s how they met.” 

He wrung his hands and wondered if his mother had anticipated just how much her fun stories would haunt him. Did his parents ever fight about it? Or had they both been nostalgic for the _good old days_? Stiles knew that, logically, he shouldn’t feel guilty for things that were out of his control… but that didn’t stop his stomach from souring every time he thought about it. 

Derek still hadn’t said anything, still hadn’t taken his hands off Stiles’s knee. Stiles cleared his throat. 

“You can break up with me. If you want.” Stiles shrugged. “I get it.” 

“What? _No_.” Derek shook his head. “No that’s not— no.” Derek rubbed his stubble, something he did when he was nervous. “I get it.” Stiles rolled his eyes but Derek grabbed Stiles’s hand, prying them off his bag so he could squeeze his fingers. “No, I do. _Really_. My uncle, he was into that stuff too.” 

Stiles hiccuped and didn’t care that a few tears rolled down his cheeks. 

“Really?” 

Derek smiled. 

“Yeah. I don’t know a lot about it, I’m pretty sure my mom has threatened him to never tell us anything, but… yeah. He was a part of that.” 

Derek trailed off, struggling to find the word.

“Social phenomenon,” Stiles supplied. Derek snapped his fingers and nodded. Stiles slumped in his chair and wiped his eyes clumsily with the back of his hands. “I haven’t,” he sucked in a burning breath, “I haven’t told anyone that. _Ever_.” 

“Me too.” Stiles peeked at Derek, at his exhausted smile and how his shoulders were slack with relief. “My sisters and I were always worried we were going to be found out, somehow. Any time Peter visited and walked around the city, we thought maybe he’d be recognized somehow.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles threw his arms around Derek. Derek made a muffled sound, his little _I’m happy but confused_ hum that Stiles adored. “I _totally_ know what you mean.” He buried his face in the crook of Derek’s neck. “I just… my boss said something weird, something a villain would say to my mom and dad back in the day. He just heard it somewhere and… it freaked me out.”

Stiles laughed, a little hysteric. Derek’s grip on him tightened and he felt him smile against Stiles’s shoulder. It had been a few months, short enough that Stiles couldn’t say _love_ , but long enough that Derek was starting to become serious. His fingers were spread across Stiles’s back, like he was feeling the air fill Stiles’s lungs. They stayed like that, a crumpled heap on the floor until Stiles had stopped shaking and Derek’s grip had loosened. 

“Come on.” 

Derek pulled Stiles to his feet and _kissed his knuckles_ like he wanted Stiles to die on the spot. Luckily, Stiles held it together through dinner, his hand clasped with Derek’s under the table. 

::::

Fog cooled Noah as he jogged through the still-sleeping Beacon Hills.

Beacon Hills was the kind of town where people went for jogs in the early morning without a bit of worry. It was the kind of town where neighbors talked to one another, summer barbecues were common, and parents competed to see who provided the best baked goods at PTA meetings. Nights were quiet, filled with sounds of writhing, singing nature. It was nothing like the noisy, massive, and _unforgiving_ New York.

Noah hated it for the longest time. 

Claudia had adapted with ease, switching gears the moment she found out she was pregnant. It had been a wild night, just after they’d busted a drug deal and the last few hours were spent running from the cops with their odd villain Oz by their side, the three of them agreeing to put aside differences long enough to keep from getting arrested. 

It was a good night, a _great_ night, but Noah hadn’t thought it was going to be the _last night_. When him and Claudia had went to bed, bruised and high on adrenaline, he thought that the next night would be more of the same. 

Then Claudia had gotten sick in the middle of her shift at the hospital, and one pregnancy test later… 

_I mean, we couldn’t have kept doing it forever, I guess_. Claudia’s hands had been shaking so hard when Noah had come home that night to see that she hadn’t put on her costume. _We… we were going to stop eventually_.

She said it like a question, and Noah knew that they both _hadn’t_ planned on stopping. He’d been young and they had gotten married, sure, but as for the _future_ -future… they never thought about it. Being a superhero, or in reality just a person with a mask who still had to evade police, wasn’t exactly the profession of someone who had a long-term plan. 

It just… happened. Being a cop in an apathetic city where criminals were in-and-out of holding, the cyclical downward spiral just made Noah… _tired_ , like the whole world was on his shoulders. One day he was living with day-to-day discontent, the next he would come home and _do something about it_. And that decision had changed his entire life. It was how he met Claudia. It was the closest he felt to being _on course_ , like he had finally found his way home in the dark. 

Claudia was pregnant and Noah was going to be a _father_ — he was _happy_ , but he also felt his lungs stutter when he agreed with Claudia. They had to stop. And so they’d done exactly that, packed away their blue and gold costumes and left the city, for some place quieter, a great place to raise a great boy. 

Gravel crunched under Noah’s sneakers, his body considerably older than when he’d first moved to the little town in Northern California. By the time Noah made it back home, the sunlight was warming the cold dew on the grass. 

He kicked off his shoes in the foyer, stretching out his neck and shoulders and rubbing his aching muscles. His house was quiet, the wood groaning under his feet as he got coffee started. He saw that Stiles’s door was open, and Noah ventured out to the back porch. 

Sure enough, Stiles was sleeping on the couch outside, his breath coming in steady, even beats. But unlike most mornings, he wasn’t alone. 

Derek was there too, his legs spread out along most of the couch, with Stiles in his arm and a blanket pulled over them. Noah can’t help but think of Claudia, of how they must have looked together. Young, _hopelessly in love_ , and optimistic because they had each other. Noah adjusted the blanket to keep it from slipping off before he went back inside to make breakfast. 

There were moments when everything felt like Noah was adrift in a sea of white noise. He cracked open eggs even though he couldn’t really tell if he was hungry or not. He simply knew that he should eat, and that if he made a lot, Derek and Stiles would devour the rest. 

_It’s not so bad_ , he could hear Claudia say, _living out here, having a real life. It’s pretty nice._

Noah had grown to appreciate the silence, the slower pace, the inherent care that people seemed to give each other. Time moved on, the world kept turning, and the brief handful of years that Noah and Claudia had spent running around New York City were merely a cultural footnote of that decade. 

_No, it’s not so bad._ Noah shook himself until the white noise faded from his ears. He heard Derek and Stiles stir on the porch, a blearly and hoarse, “What time is it,” coming from Derek. Stiles fell to the ground with an _oomf_ and a louder, “Hold on, let me check my phone.” Noah smiled and got out three cups just as Stiles stumbled inside. 

“Good morning, Pops.” 

Derek shuffled in, the blanket folded under his arm and his cheeks pink from the early morning cold. 

“Good morning, Mr. Stilinski.” 

_Oh god, Mr. Stilinski_ , it sent gross chills down Noah’s spine every time he heard it, but he knew that Derek was going to have to wait for a few months to be able to call him _Noah_. He could hear Claudia cackling at Noah’s confusing mixture of smug-embarrassment at what his life had become. 

Stiles bullied Noah out of the kitchen and plain scrambled eggs quickly become a scramble with scallions and feta along with toast and orange juice. Derek shifted nervously on the stool, wringing his hands until Stiles broke the silence with a question about… crop rotations. 

Derek lit up, relieved and eager to speak and Noah drifts in and out of the conversation. 

His son cooked breakfast, Derek cleaned the dishes, and the Sheriff’s coffee never hit the halfway mark, one of them was always there to refill it. It was all so adorably… 

Domestic. Not only domestic, but domestic in a way that Noah and Claudia had _never_ been at Stiles and Derek’s age. Stiles was still talkative, hyper, but contained, more comfortable than Noah had ever seen. And Derek… well, Noah knew Derek well enough to know that he was quiet. But around Stiles… well, Derek was downright chatty. 

_It’s a different time_ , Noah reasonsed. 

_It’s a better time_ , he thought, though with less conviction. 

:::::

“Okay so Cora likes windsurfing, Laura likes Chihuly, and your mom is all about like, business shit so like, stocks and, uh stuff—” Stiles swallowed, tugging at his t-shirt like it was a noose. He blew out a dramatic exhale. “Worse comes to worse, I just hide behind Peter and talk about all the embarrassing things you’d do when you were little.” 

Derek rolled his eyes. 

“He told you all the best bits already.”

Stiles scoffed. 

“Yeah, _sure_ , that’s exactly what you’d want me to think.” 

They were at Beacon Hills State Park which was crowded due to it being the Fourth of July. A majority of the town was in attendance and Talia was flying out to check up on Peter… and meet the boy her son wouldn’t stop talking about. The smell of barbecue, fried dough, and sugar wafted throughout the state park as kids ran with sparklers while their parents set up picnic blankets. 

Stiles had a few blankets tucked under his arm and scouted out a peaceful area where the trees were thicker and provided more shade. It was hot and Derek helped smooth out blankets along the grass.

“You really don’t have anything to worry about.” Derek kissed Stiles’s cheek because it always made him smile. “I mean, think of it this way, even if you were a total dumpster fire, which you aren’t, my mom is going to be totally preoccupied with Peter.” Stiles snorted and his shoulders relaxed. “But none of that matters anyway because she’s going to love you.”

Stiles made a soft sound. He turned, hiding his vulnerability with a sly glance. 

“How are you not worried?”

Derek shrugged. 

“I mean. I worried about trying to talk to you. Everything after that has been a breeze in comparison.” 

Stiles’s shoulders went slack and his cheeks flushed pink. Reminding Stiles that _Derek_ had seen him and wanted to talk to him… so much that every plan he orchestrated to _try_ and make that happen had failed. Miserably. Even when his uncle Peter had stepped in with his “mastermind talents,” nothing worked. Nothing until a freak rainfall on an ordinary afternoon. 

Stiles squeezed Derek’s hands. 

“You’re a huge dork.”

Noah Stilinski is the first to show up, still on duty but more relaxed. His smile was a world-weary one, but Stiles insisted that was how his father smiled all the time. He had a quiet way about him that was comforting on good days, and unnerving when Derek was particularly self-conscious. 

It was a good day as Noah’s hand clapped down on Derek’s shoulder before he was pulled into a tight hug. 

“Happy Fourth of July.” 

Stiles was pulled into a hug next. 

“Dad, if I see any powdered sugar on your uniform I’m gonna flip.” 

Next came Finstock, which was a secret _delight _because Finstock was the closest thing to a living cartoon character. He had on loud teal shorts and a louder Hawaiian shirt with big sunglasses and a huge grimace.__

“All right. I’m here for moral support.” 

He said it like it was a laborious chore, but Derek could see the genuine smile behind the large teeth and rolled eyes. Stiles and Finstock had their own language of insults peppered between shoving and moments of shared silence. Finstock was louder than usual, though Derek suspected that it was mostly to preoccupy Stiles, to get his mind off the crowds, his father, and—

Talia, Cora, and Laura emerged from over the hill and Derek’s throat tightened despite his insistence that he wasn’t worried. He ran without thinking, and was soon hugging his two sisters as his mother watched with a smile. Derek pulled away, his voice tight as he stepped away.

“Thanks for coming. Guys, this is Stiles,” and he turned to see Stiles grinning. Finstock stood behind him, looking like the world’s most ridiculous bodyguard with his arms crossed across his chest. “And Finstock, and Sheriff Stilinski.”

Introductions were something Derek could handle, falling into host-mode instantly as years of galas, parties, and charity events came back to him in a rush. Finstock dug around his cooler for soda and tossed a few to Cora and Laura. General catching up and benign airport complaints were easy to spin into longer conversations until Peter’s shadow fell over them.

Talia stopped abruptly, turning to face her brother. He was draped in deep greens with large mirrored sunglasses, his wrists glittered with silver bangles and his fingers were covered in rings. Over the few months he’d spent visiting Peter, he learned that Peter used accessories as a shield. The more glittering an ostentatious, the better. The muscles in Derek’s shoulders tightened and he felt Stiles squeeze his hand. 

Peter bit his lip and Talia drew in a sharp breath—

“Bobby?” Kira’s usual polite indifference shattered into a wide grin. Derek knew Kira to be nice and constantly by his uncle’s side, professional and distantly warm with any guests. She broke out into a jog and hugged Finstock such force that he had to take two steps back to make up for the momentum. “What are you doing here?” 

Moral support for Stiles.” Finstock drew back. “What about you—”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute.” Stiles interrupted, his voice dropping back to it’s normal octave, forgetting he was trying to impress Talia. “How do you two know each other?” 

Kira’s lips parted, but she didn’t respond. Peter cleared his throat.

“He overheard us sparring in the woods. He came to investigate because he thought we were exhibitionists that were fucking in the park.” 

Kira sighed, Finstock pinched the bridge of his nose, Derek groaned, and Talia shook her head with a hissed, “ _Jesus_ , Peter.” Stiles laughed, loud, and Kira punched his shoulder, a smile twitching across her lips.

::::

The last day Peter had been running around as the Great and Incredible Oz, he hadn’t _known_ it was going to be the end. He had no plans on stopping and he assumed that Atlas and Athena were the same. He had been tailing them, following them into the shady side streets, to a grimy warehouse where Peter took to the fire escape to get better leverage as he crept along the building while Athena broke in. 

Heroes were the lunatics that ran around because they were driven by a sense of justice.

Villains… well, Peter wasn’t sure about the others, but he was driven by a deep sense of purposeful fascination. From the first time he saw Atlas and Athena from up in his office, he just _knew_ that they were important to him. Peter didn’t give a shit about crime. He left the morality to the heroes. 

He watched from up in the rafters as he secured a rope. Atlas and Athena worked their way through a group of dealers. He sighed dreamily with every _crack_ from Atlas and each _stomp_ from Athena. When the last one fell, Peter swung down from the ceiling, emerald green cape trailing behind him. 

At least, he sailed for about twenty feet, then the rafter broke. 

He landed hard on his feet and fell to his knees, catching himself with his gloved hands. 

“Shit.” Peter laughed, blood stinging his tongue. “That was supposed to look a lot cooler.” 

__Athena giggled and Atlas hid his smile behind his fist._ _

__“Do you need a minute?”_ _

__Peter flipped him off, dusting off his knees. The dealers were all tied to the support beams, cheery notes of “You can arrest me now” taped to their foreheads. One of them groaned and Peter shook off his aches._ _

__“Prepare yourselves, Atlas and Athena, for the—”_ _

__The familiar and dreadful wail of police sirens cut into Peter’s prepared and perfected monologue. Athena sucked in a quick breath and Atlas grabbed Peter’s hand._ _

__“Come on, no time for this now.”_ _

__Running from the cops shouldn’t be one of Peter’s most treasured memories, but that night would never leave his mind until dementia or death stripped it from him. He had been sweating under his costume, heart pounding wildly as Atlas kissed Athena hard and panted, “you’re faster than me, get the car, we’ll catch up.”_ _

Athena spared a look at Peter, her eyes behind her black mask wide, though still brilliantly hazel. She nodded, and was off like a bullet. Peter had never had to run with them before, evading the police had always been a seperate part of the game. Now he was ducking into side streets, Atlas’s grip _tight_ on his wrist as they kept taking turn after turn, sometimes getting so close to the sires that Peter was worried Atlas was going to leave him there, stranded as a lure, but he never did. 

__Peter’s legs felt like they were on fire by the time they crouched behind a dumpster in the back of a Chinese restaurant._ _

__Atlas’s fingers were still around his wrist, even when he perked up at the sound of an engine. He stood and Peter stood with him, his knees shaking hard. Atlas made gasping rugged, while Peter was merely awkward._ _

__A clunky silver Volvo was waiting for them. Athena leaned out of the driver’s side window. Peter would never forget how she had changed, dressed in a loud cardigan with her mask clumsily tied to her face._ _

__Peter walked with Atlas to the car, it seemed like the respectful thing to do, and he was honestly surprised when Athena wiped sweat from her brow and smiled at him._ _

__“Need a ride?”_ _

__It had been around three in the morning, Peter smelled like fermented garbage, and his lungs still burned from sprinting like a maniac. He felt shaky, unmade and remade all within a few breaths, in that crusty alleyway by the Chinese restaurant. He smiled._ _

__“If you wouldn’t mind.”_ _

__Atlas finally released him, clapping him on the shoulder._ _

__“Get on inside then.”_ _

__Peter climbed into the backseat and sighed with relief as soon as the door closed. Atlas sat in the passenger’s seat, Athena started the car, and…_ _

__Wind blew over Peter’s face (the parts that weren’t covered by the mask) and his heartbeat finally began to slow. The adrenalin faded and that’s when he started to shake, as the usual onslaught of fear and existential dread caught up with him. He watched and felt suspended, in that time, that _moment_. He hadn’t given them a drop off point yet, and they hadn’t asked, like they all knew that a nice drive was needed to unwind. _ _

Athena turned on the radio, and _More than a Woman_ by the Bee Gees filled the car. Without missing a beat, Peter sang along. Atlas and Athena started singing with him three words in. Peter would never forget how happy he was, sweating in the back of a dingy silver Volvo with jellied legs and a hammering heart. It was the best he’d felt in his entire life. 

__That night they dropped him off at a subway station with a “see you around, Oz.” He was exhausted, but still mustered a sincere, “You live another day, courtesy of the benevolent Oz.”_ _

__He fully expected to see them the next night, only they never showed. The night after, Peter thought maybe they were tired. But night after night, Atlas and Athena never returned to haunt the back alleys of New York._ _

His sister didn’t understand the deep depression, _especially_ after he’d come clean about being a villain. For all the yelling, all the embarrassment, it never led to _empathy._

 _Get up, get out of bed_ , Talia parted the curtains and tore off Peter’s blankets after his fourth day of missing work. _You don’t even know their real names, Peter. You don’t know who they are. They don’t know who you are. Get up!_

Each breath she drew had grown more frantic, and Peter just laid there. Color was rapidly fading from hsi world. _Something must have happened to them_ , he whispered between his sister’s shrieks, _they wouldn’t have just left me. Something must have happened_. He cried, he _mourned_ , he worried that something terrible had happened, to these people that he knew _deeply_ and at the same time didn’t know at all. 

_I knew them_ , Peter insisted in the safety of his own mind. _I knew them, I knew them, I knew them._

__Time passed. He was removed from Hale Consulting and it was as though his story had ended, yet he had to continue living even though he no longer had a purpose._ _

__Kids ran around with sparklers, Stiles went on food runs with Derek, and Talia had managed to curb back her passive-aggressive needling, mostly because she couldn’t ask Kira many questions because Kira and Finstock were talking excitedly on another blanket. Peter checked his watch. He’d stayed for two hours, he’d give Kira another fifteen minutes with her new friend before he’d leave._ _

__Peter sat on a blanket with Stiles’s father, who was fine to share silence. Peter fiddled with his bangles, watching Derek and Stiles from the safety of his mirrored sunglasses._ _

They were sweet. It was the perfect word to describe them: _sweet_. Sugary, complementary, and overall… happy in each other’s presence. It was a happiness that Peter rarely experienced and believed in, but watching Stiles whisper to Derek was enough to confirm that it was possible. _Derek chose well_ , Peter thought as he rested his elbows on his knees.

__The Sheriff stood, dusting off his knees._ _

__“I’m going to go relieve the other officers, take one more patrol.”_ _

__Peter straightened._ _

__“I think I’m going to head home too. Sheriff Stilinski,” Peter drawled, mostly out of habit and not an actual desire to be charming, “help me up?”_ _

He hadn’t meant anything by it, just simply a request and a playful jab before he left. Peter thought the Sheriff was fine, nothing out of the ordinary and nothing extraordinary. _Just like me_ , Peter thought bitterly as the Sheriff turned with a wry smile. He offered his hand and Peter took it. 

The Sheriff squeezed and _pulled_ in a way that Peter _knew_. Peter’s eyes went wide behind his sunglasses, and color cascaded back into Peter’s world. 

__“There you go,” Noah Stilinski’s eyes had deep wrinkles at the corner, his voice had worn around the edges in age, but the warmth that filled Peter… that was the same. He brushed Peter’s shoulder with his hand, a movement so obviously ingrained in him that he probably didn’t think twice. “Better now that the world is back under your feet?”_ _

__The indigo sky had stripes of tangerine dashed across it, the last remnants of a setting sun. Sparklers illuminated the Sheriff’s silhouette and everything was drowning in champagne and dopamine. Peter forgot to breathe, to the point where he sucked in a dramatic breath, his hand spasming in the Sheriff’s._ _

“Um.” Let it be said that Peter couldn’t be eloquent in every moment of his life. “Yes. Of course. Thank you. _Kira_ ,” Peter’s voice cracked on his assistant’s name. She jumped, scrambling to her feet. Her eyes met his, unspoken questions of _are you okay, what do you need_ reflected back at him. “Are you ready?” 

__Kira nodded._ _

__“Yes.” She squeezed Finstock’s shoulder. “Of course. Let’s go.”_ _

__Peter knew his sister was staring, he knew his hands were shaking when Kira wove her arm through his, a facade that he was leading her to the car when she was really checking to see if she needed to take his weight. Her grip on him tightened when he started to cry, tears streaking out from under his sunglasses._ _

__“Peter.” She kept her voice low, not looking back toward his family, for which he was _eternally_ grateful. “Do I need to get anything before we get in the car?” _ _

__He shook his head._ _

__“No. Just need to go home.”_ _

Kira drove fast and before she’d unbuckled her seatbelt Peter was out of the car, rushing to this second floor sewing room. He had an _abundance_ of material, but Peter hadn’t taken his measurements in years. He heard Kira quietly take off her shoes and head toward the kitchen.

__By the time she came up with a tray of food in hand, Peter had already sequestered the materials he needed. He heard her put the tray down, her feet nearly silent as she stepped back in his peripheral vision. He knew she saw what he was making, the cape, the slacks… and he knew that Talia had left explicit orders to not encourage this kind of behavior._ _

__In fact, if Peter were to slide back into his ways… he was sure Kira was supposed to tell Talia as soon as possible._ _

__She didn’t reach for her phone. She kept watching. Peter finished the last hem, then turned to look at her._ _

__“Why aren’t you running to get your phone?”_ _

__Kira met his eyes and Peter chastised himself for forgetting that Kira could be severe. She blazed brightly, not fiery like his sister, but cosmic._ _

__“This happened for a reason. Something changed at the park.”_ _

__“I…” Peter swallowed. “I saw someone who I haven’t seen in… a very long time.” Peter wiped the wetness from his cheeks as Kira dragged over a chair, gently taking the cape away so Peter could get started on the rest. “Someone I thought I’d lost forever.”_ _

__Peter knew a little bit about Stiles’s father from Stiles himself. He was a widow. And… doing some quick math on Stiles’s age, Peter knew why Atlas and Athena hadn’t continued after that night. Peter hadn’t been allowed to talk about them with Talia or his nieces and nephews. But Kira was given no such restriction. Her eyes widened._ _

“Atlas?” Her eyes shone brightly and Peter’s chest constricted with relentless affection. “Mr. Stilinski is _Atlas_?”

__“Yes.” Peter took a deep breath. “I found him. I’m going to see him again. I… don’t know if you can understand… but… please. I can, I just ask for two days. Two days so I can get everything right. Then you can…”_ _

_Call Talia_ , he didn’t say. 

__Fireworks went off, soft pops in the distance. Kira pressed her hands on her knees until her knuckles were white._ _

__“I mean,” she ducked her head down with a shy smile. “I’m kind of your henchman as it is.”_ _

__The words had barely left her mouth before Peter pulled her into a tight hug._ _

__::::_ _

__Early mornings in Beacon Hills were peaceful, the streets empty as birds began to slowly chirp their way awake._ _

__The Sheriff usual patrol was to walk down Main Street, past all the closed shops, to the lone coffee shop just around the corner that was open obscenely early. At the early hour, only a handful of people would be there, and depending on the morning Finstock would be there, grabbing breakfast._ _

Over the years, the Sheriff had gotten used to taking his time. In New York, the only speed was _as fast as possible_ in everything, but once he moved west people noticed how fast he walked. He measured his steps carefully, he had to remind himself that it was okay to enjoy leisure—

He turned the corner to see a deep green classic convertible parked _on the sidewalk_ , idling right outside of the coffee shop. When he looked to the windows, it was fogged with clouds of green and black swirling powder, he could hear shouts inside, but that wasn’t what had the Sheriff _frozen_ on the pavement.

 _More than a Woman_ blasted from the car’s speakers.

__The lyrics sank deep into Noah’s bones and left him breathless. The doors of the cafe burst open and two figures stumbled out. One was shorter, but covered from head to toe, including a fencing mask. They had a bo staff that had purses and bags looped around it that they dumped into the convertible. Their head whipped to look at him before leaping into the driver’s seat._ _

__The second figure was tall and one that Noah recognized. A familiar smile stretched across a half-masked face. There were some more wrinkles. Thirty years would do that to a man._ _

__Oz tilted his head back, adorned in familiar deep greens with black accents, and cackled._ _

__Noah smiled. For the first time, Beacon Hills felt like home._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo this is my first time writing Derek/Stiles. I'm not sure how I feel about this fic, I enjoyed some parts. Of course it became more of an ensemble piece. 
> 
> Either way, I hope it's enjoyable. Let me know what you think.
> 
> Come say hi to me on [**tumblr**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/).


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